


There are other worlds than these

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape Aftermath, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Derek is a Good Friend, Derek is a Softie, F/M, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Malia Tate & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Monster of the Week, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Spoilers up to the end of Season 5a, Stiles is Not a Virgin, This will be triggering if you have any experience with assault, Use your own discretion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have a couch,” Stiles hisses, feeling strangely betrayed.</p><p>“Yes,” Derek says slowly.</p><p>“You have a job."</p><p>Derek at least has the grace to look a little sheepish.</p><p>“You’re a <em>functioning member of society!</em>”</p><p>“Surprise?” Derek says, sounding unsure, and bizarrely open. Settled here, in this place, but also within himself. Like he’s <em>home</em>. Like this loft is his house, and not just some place he goes to brood and wallow in his horrible life choices. </p><p>Or: Beacon Hills has a run in with the Fae. All does not go to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unseelie

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter has serious trigger warning for rape, attempted rape, as well as aftermath of assault. If you are triggered by any of these things, please us your discretion. The scenes in question are near the middle and end of the chapter.  
> I think this is going to be another two chapters, with an interlude or two to fill in some blanks, so it shouldn't be an overly long ride. Hope you guys like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' neighbour is a vampire. It is the only explanation.  
> Well, probably.

Stiles taps his chin. 

“Something about her seems fishy.”

Scott groans. He smacks his head against the wall.

Drama queen.

“No it doesn’t.”

Stiles ignores him and types _how to tell if your next door neighbour is a vampire_ into google.

“You’re obsessing. It’s creepy.”

“I’m not,” Stiles says distractedly, scrolling through the- holy shit, _120,000_ search results. He blames Twilight. And the Vampire Diaries, and the House of Night, and all the other young adult paranormal fantasy series he definitely didn’t read a couple of years back in the name of thorough supernatural research. And he definitely hadn’t, after he’d gotten though the first couple of chapters, (realising pretty quickly that they were completely useless as far as accuracy went) _kept_ reading simply because he enjoyed them. No sir. No sir _ee_.

“And even if I _was_ overreacting, it’s Beacon Hills. I’ve done worse things than stalk some creepy pale chick for the safety of our little forest town. Some creepy pale chick, who, I might add, conveniently showed up just when things were getting back to normal around here after the dread doctors- a la murphy’s law- _and_ moved in right next door to me, right after I passed my druid initiation!”

Scott stares at him for a few seconds, his brow furrowed, well, kind of adorably. Scott can’t look serious. At best he can manage boy-scout-responsible. It’s the crooked jaw, and the painfully earnest innocence in his puppy-dog eyes. 

“Stiles,” Scott says earnestly, mouth pulling into a worried frown that makes him look like a floppier-haired Justin Bieber, “you’re overthinking it,” 

Stiles clicks on: _Vampire or Wendigo? Know the difference. Seven signs to watch out for_.

“I’m really not.”

“You really are.”

Scott might not be able to pull off serious, but he does stubborn _really_ well.

“The timing is suspicious,” Stiles says, because if he doesn’t explain at least some of his reasoning, Scott will never stop pushing. He will pull out every card in his arsenal to get Stiles to spill the beans. Scott’s never had to the use alpha card on him, seeing as, well, Stiles has never managed to make it past the guilt card; a horrifying torture technique of the _Stiles, why don’t you trust me? Haven’t I been a good friend, Stiles?_ variety. Stiles has a feeling it would not be pleasant. 

The worst thing is that he knows this is going to go one of two ways. Either Scott will believe him, freak out and get super overprotective for no god damn reason, or he won’t. He’ll look at Stiles like he’s a crazy person, and he and dad will start whispering behind his back again, shooting worried looks his way when they think he’s not looking. It was bad after the nogitsune. It was _worse_ after Donovan. The last thing Stiles needs is to be on dad’s radar in a bad way, looking completely unhinged, spinning crackpot theories about some girl, who, in all likelihood, _will_ turn out to be just some girl.

Still. Can’t be too careful.

“There’s something up with her Scotty. I can feel it. You’ve got to trust my magical, druidy instincts.”

Scott still looks dubious, and Stiles sighs.

“If you can’t do that, trust my gut. It hasn’t steered us wrong before.” 

Stiles clicks away from the Vampires vs. Wendigo’s article when he finds out, doing some definitely not morally grey things, it was written by a part-time real estate agent, part-time stripper named Candice from Northern Ontario with no degree, and a history of suspicious bank transactions. 

Scott squints at the screen and immediately looks appalled. “Did you _hack_ someone’s bank records?”

“No one important.”

“Jesus Stiles. Since when can you hack into stuff?”

“Since I figured out how to use my magical mojo to interface with the laptop. Pretty cool, huh?”

“I think I should be worried about how casually you’re breaking the law these days.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Stiles clicks on: _who’s your hottie vampire crush?_ For the sake of thoroughness, of course. 

Scott sighs. It’s that horrible: _I’m disappointed in you and your absolute inability to respond to situations proportionally, but I’ve also given up all hope of you ever being normal, so what can I do?_ sigh, that Stiles absolutely loathes. He’s been weak for it since day dot. Especially from Scotty and his dad. Horrifyingly, Lydia has recently been known to engender horrible guilt from him when using it too. And sure, he’s always been a bit weak for her, but in the _she’s so scary-hot, oh god, oh god, she’s going to kill me_ sense, not the _oh, I actually genuinely care about this person enough to respect their right to object to my behaviour and/or person_ , way. Stiles misses the days when his social circle consisted of him, Scott, and his right hand. 

“Dude. Okay, one, school starts next week, when else was she supposed to move? And two, please stop magically hacking people. It’s against the law. Your dads the Sherriff.” 

Scott sounds sad, like he can’t believe he has to tell Stiles any of this. Like Stiles has sunk to a new low. It’s times like these Stiles would really like to remind Scott, who seems to retroactively erase his memory every time he fucks up, about that time Scott betrayed them all and defected to Gerard Argent to save his girlfriend, not giving a shit about the rest of them; or that time Scott betrayed them all and defected to Deucalion to save his mum, not giving a shit about the rest of them; or that time Scott didn’t believe Stiles about Matt, and almost got them all killed; or that time Scott didn’t believe Stiles about Theo, and almost got them all killed. He won’t, of course. He hasn’t sunk as far as Scotty boy seems to think. 

Stiles taps the keys a little harder than necessary, back-tracing how, exactly, he got Spike from Buffy as his hottie vampire crush. Sure, on one level it seems appropriate. A sassy loudmouth with a heart of asshole- match made in loudmouth, back-talking heaven. But on so many others it’s just wrong. Stiles has a systematic hatred for raging douches in leather jackets who like to push innocent people around, and act menacing for no reason. It’s just a fact. He decides to redo the quiz- with extreme prejudice. 

“It’s _untraceable_ Scott. Geez. Lighten up. Also, I love you, but you’re so naïve. See, the plausibility of her moving here is _supposed_ to throw us off. She’s using the old: move to a small town just in time for senior year to avoid undue suspicion trick. They do it all the time on Law and Order.”

“You don’t watch Law and Order. You hate procedural cop shows. You say they steal all your puns.”

“Well they do.”

“Even though the episodes were, like, written a million years ago, and they only play the reruns now.”

“Clearly you don’t watch SVU.”

“Neither do you,” Scott points out. 

“Scott! No one asked for your opinion, okay?” Stiles squirms uncomfortably, and Scott rolls his eyes, muttering something probably deeply unkind under his breath.

“Now!” Stiles spins in his chair, folding his fingers under his chin. “I need you to call a pack meeting.”

“You don’t even have anything. You’ve talked to her maybe once. _Maybe_.”

“I have enough,” Stiles says darkly.

Scott grumbles and slinks away to call the others.

Stiles smiles to himself and grabs his keys off the desk, closing his laptop.

Time to go see his favourite druid.

**

“Honey, I’m home!” 

The door to the animal clinic has a bell that rings cheerfully as it swings shut behind him. Stiles starts whistling the theme from Apocalypse Now, because he knows Deaton hates the movie, and all acts of revenge, no matter how petty, will be deeply satisfying after the night of unending horror that was his initiation ceremony; most of which he suspects Deaton made up for his own sick amusement. There is something deeply strange about that man. 

Stiles stops just before the wolfsbane barrier between the vet’s office and the back of the clinic, his spidey senses tingling.

“Er…”

There’s a girl sitting on a chair in the waiting room. Alone. Holding a blue balloon.

She’s also crying.

Stiles skin starts to feel itchy and uncomfortable. There’s sweat beading at his hairline. Crying children are not his specialty. You might even say that they are the exact opposite of his specialty. Stiles sucks at children. He is the worst. He has no paternal instinct. Once, at the hospital, Melissa handed him an objectively adorable sleeping one-month old baby and he just kind of…stared at it until she took it back, holding it away from his body like it was a live grenade. Stiles is not meant to be around children. He does not know how to talk to them, move around them, and he _especially_ doesn’t know how to comfort them. Which is why the crying little girl in pigtails, a yellow sundress and white stockings is a very bad thing. Possibly worse than his creepy pale maybe-a-vampire next door neighbour.

Deaton comes up to the counter, peeling of his gloves, and looking especially mystically unhelpful. He gives Stiles the same look of resigned acceptance he gives him every time he shows up instead of Scott, before he freezes. He eyes pass over the girl and his face spasms. He reaches out slowly and catches Stiles’ sleeve.

“Stiles,” he says carefully, eyes never leaving the crying girl, “I need you to keep your eyes on the child, and walk towards me. Do not show her your back under any circumstance.”

Stiles swallows. “What?”

“Do what you’re told. Don’t argue.”

Stiles does. He backs away one carefully measured step at a time. Every step he takes, the little girls cries pick up strength, grow louder, more desperate, until Stiles is sweating and his hands are shaking. Something clenches around his heart, hard, and he realises with some shock that he _wants_ to go to her, _wants_ to comfort and protect her and keep her safe. Only a little bit, sure, but still. Stiles is a broken person. He doesn’t like kids. He’s not a comforter. If a toddler walked out into traffic he might not run out after them. Okay, no. He would. But it wouldn’t be his first instinct, and he’d think the kid was kind of stupid, and some secret evil part of him would think it deserved to be run down. Stiles doesn’t voice these thoughts aloud, for obvious reasons.

Stiles makes it behind the barrier and all the breath rushes out of him. The hard, clenched feeling around his heart snaps and he stumbles into Deaton like he’s been cut from a tether.

Suddenly, the child stops crying. Stops moving. She doesn’t even look like she’s breathing. Her eyes dart up and lock onto Stiles, acid green and filled with a kind of menace no pre-pubescent should be able to muster. 

“What..?” he mutters, for the second time in as many minutes.

Deaton squeezes his shoulder, and, ever so gently, checks the lock on the counter door. Stiles swallows nervously.

The girl screams, unnaturally high pitched. The crystal vase on the counter shatters, glass, dandelions and water spraying outwards, cutting Stiles’ cheek and hands. The sheet glass on the windows shatters too, falling to the floor and pavement. The framed pictures on the wall crack one by one. Stiles and Deaton hold their hands over their ears, faces contorted in pain as the scream goes on. 

It’s only when the girl has jumped up onto the counter and is staring Stiles down eye to eye (because she’s _tiny_ , seriously, a tiny little kid) that he realises she’s stopped screaming, and also, that she can cross a mountain ash line.

“Shit.”

She’s staring at him, head cocked like he’s a curiosity she would very much like to decode, or possibly dissect. He’s not the kind to go gaga over miniature kiddy clothes and how cute they are, but even he can tell she’d look pretty adorable in a mini lab coat. If you ignored the distinct aura of menace of course. 

Helpfully, Deaton has also fucked off lord knows where while the kid was distracted staring at Stiles like he's her new favourite toy. Seriously, worst mentor _ever_.

“Well, ah, hello,” he says, because, yeah, awkward with kids. Apparently even the evil ones with evil designs on his person.

She cocks her head further. Like, unnaturally far. Owl far. Stiles is ugly-sweating now. Marathon-runner-on-the-home-stretch sweating. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, kind of high-pitched and strangled sounding. “I’m Stiles.”

Her eyes flare wide, turning black around the edges, which was _not_ the reaction he was expecting (although, given his track record with kids, he probably should have been) and she screams again, loud and _angry_. She reaches out for him, and Stiles is frozen to the spot watching that tiny hand, still chubby with baby fat, stretch towards him like it’s elasticised, thinning out, warping until it can reach out and close around his throat. The touch burns, and Stiles screams too. His voice warps until he’s screaming like her. His voice rises until it feels like a tornado is being funnelled through his oesophagus, until he’s sure his ear-drums will rupture with their combined sound. Her eyes turn from black, to purple, to blue, to that haunting acid green. Stiles watches, drawn in like he’s hypnotised. Her nails, no, shit, _claws_ , dig into his throat until blood is painting his throat and collar red. 

Then Deaton, marvellous, wonderful, _stupendous_ Deaton, steps up behind Stiles, slipping something heavy around his neck that makes the girl stumble away and vanish like a mirage, but also _burns_. Stiles stops screaming like a banshees’ louder, more annoying cousin and yelps instead.

“Ow! What the fuck?” He makes to touch the necklace, but it burns his fingers too. Deaton carefully manoeuvres it until it’s resting against his t-shirt instead of his skin. He frowns at Stiles chest, examining the burn. Stiles notices, with no small amount of bitterness, that the necklace doesn’t burn _him_.

“Don’t worry,” Deaton says, “It will not return today.”

“Wow, okay, sure. I’ll just take your word for it. Or maybe you can actually be helpful for once and explain _why_ it won’t be coming back, or better yet, why you needed to _burn_ me to get it to go away.”

Stiles voice goes high and thready- holy _fuck_ his throat hurts- it’s possible he might be panicking. Just a little. 

“Your first question I can answer,” Deaton says, reaching into the first aid kit behind the counter for some antiseptic cream and bandages. “The fledgling will not be returning because the amulet you are wearing has sent it back to its home dimension.”

“Home dimension,” Stile repeats blandly.

Deaton starts padding down his chest with antiseptic and Stiles winces.

“Yes.”

“A whole other dimension, just, sitting out there in space, waiting to be walked though, or opened like some kind of door. Just… _there_.”

“Indeed.”

“So that… thing, was from another dimension.”

“Not entirely.” Deaton pulls out his penlight and examines the puckering on Stiles’ burn once the cream has soaked into the skin. “The body was human. It was able to cross the mountain ash after all. It was the sprite inhabiting the body that was supernatural.”

Stiles tries not to flinch away as Deaton snaps on a glove and feels around the edges of the burn.

“Before you said fledgling,” he says, as a means of distracting himself from the pain.

“Fledgling, sprite. The legends give many names to the most numerous of the Unseelie.”

Stiles heart stutters. 

_Don’t disturb the circle Stiles. It’s sacred, and we must always protect what is sacred._

“Unseelie. Like… Fae.”

Deaton clicks off his pen-light. “Dark Fae, from the Unseelie court. They are the rulers of the supernatural in the Nethersphere, where so called supernatural beings first originated before migrating to our dimension a few hundred years ago.”

“Werewolves.”

“Yes. Werewolves, Kanimas, Banshees, Kitsune’s, Nogitsune’s. Anything you’ve faced, and have yet to face will have its origins in the Nethersphere.”

Stiles’ anger flares. “And you never thought to tell us any of this? That there was another dimension out there full of supernatural creatures who can, apparently, cross over into our world whenever they damn well please?”

“It’s another world Stiles,” Deaton fixes the gauze to his chest with medical tape. “There were always more present threats.”

“Yeah,” Stiles crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Because you’ve always been so forthcoming about those.”

“Maybe not,” Deaton concedes, bending down to pick a dandelion off the floor. He rolls the stem between his fingers. “But balance is a fickle thing. Whenever possible, I must air on the side of caution. It is my duty. One you will soon understand as the Emissary of the McCall pack.”

“I won’t be like you,” Stiles says quietly, years of pent up hurt and frustration rising in his chest. 

Deaton looks away from Stiles for a long moment.

"Once, I was a lot like you.”

“Hilarious and sarcastic? Somehow I doubt it.”

Deaton smiles. 

“Driven, loyal. Hopeful that I could make a difference, fix what was broken in the world. I wanted to save people.”

Stiles looks away.

“You’re saying it’ll pass,” Stiles guesses, “that one day it will all be too much and I’ll get over my hero-complex, or whatever it is you think I have, and I’ll have become a shell of the optimistic kid I once was, is that it?”

“No,” Deaton says sadly. “Quite the opposite I’m afraid.”

Deaton packs up his first aid kit and removes his gloves. 

“I don’t think you’ll change much at all Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says, deceptively mild. 

Stiles gets the feeling Deaton just said something profound and meaningful, but damned if he has any idea what it is. 

“I believe you have a pack meeting to get to?”

Stiles looks down at his phone and swears. Three missed calls from Lydia, seven from Scott, and an angry text from Malia threatening to rip his throat out if he doesn’t get his ass to her house… five minutes ago. Right.

**

Stiles walks in carrying pizza, because clearly that’s the right way to approach this situation. 

Scott perks up immediately, arms uncrossing where he was attempting to appear leader-like and forbidding, standing against the wall. He practically sprints over to liberate the triple meatlovers, deep-dish pizza with extra onion from the pile of identical boxes in his arms. Freaky werewolf noses. Malia punches him in the arm, and while he’s complaining loudly at her, steals the triple cheese with triple bacon from under his nose like the meat-whore she is. The veggie supreme he gives to Kira and Liam to split because they’re freaks who a) like vegetables, and b) have strangely modest appetites for creatures of the night. He approaches Lydia and Parish last, because Lydia’s giving him the evil eye and Parish always looks kind of uncomfortable around him since he’s the Sherriff’s son, and Stiles imagines it's kind of awkward hanging out with your bosses kid. Luckily for him, Lydia is strangely easy to placate once a liberal helping of Massoman Curry has been set in front of her, and Parish will go along with whatever mood she’s in as a sign of solidarity- and also because he’s whipped (like, _super_ whipped. It’s hilarious). The chicken nuggets and garlic bread he keeps for himself, because after the day he’s had, he deserves the most processed of all processed carbs.

“So… fairies,” Kira says, munching thoughtfully on a slice of pizza. “That’s new.”

“Fae,” Lydia corrects, “but yes.”

“So how do we get rid of them?” Parish asks.

Stiles likes him. He’s a get things done kind of guy. 

“We don’t know how many there are yet,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck, “and Deaton made it sound like the one we encountered today was like, a foot-soldier. We don’t know what a Captain, or a Major, or a General might be capable of.”

“We don’t know how strong they are,” Scott says, staring down at his feet, deep in thought. 

“Exactly.”

“So we need to find out.”

“Exac- wait what?”

Scott looks up at them. “We need to find out how strong they are, how many there are. We need to know what we’re dealing with.” 

Lydia nods. “I agree. We also need to know _how_ to deal with them. Are they intelligent? Can they be reasoned with, negotiated with? Or will we have to use force?”

“We always have to use force,” Liam says sullenly. 

Scott clasps his shoulder. “Well let’s try another way. Our first strategy will be diplomacy. Until we know what we’re dealing with, use caution, but don’t threaten them unless they threaten you. We don’t want to start a war.”

“Sounds boring,” Malia grumbles.

“Not boring,” Liam says optimistically, “just less… violent.”

“I can’t be the only one who wants to point out that our track record for peaceful negotiation with supernatural invaders has been less than favourable. The only time we ever, and I mean _ever_ pulled it off was with Jackson, and that’s because Lydia pulled an eleventh hour Beauty and the Beast true love ending and saved all our asses. I don’t see that working with a bunch of pixies,” Stiles says.

“Fae,” Kira mutters.

“Whatever,” Lydia flips her hair. “Point is, if we want to negotiate with supernatural beings from another dimension, we need to have a plan.”

Seemingly in unison, they all turn to him. Stiles rubs his hands together. “Well I am the research king.” He preens.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Hardly. Just bring what you’ve got to Deaton’s tomorrow at noon. We’ll pick his brain, and make a plan over smoothies at Mal’s.”

Scott nods. “We have a plan.”

“Well we have a plan to make a plan,” Stiles feels compelled to add. “Let’s not get too excited.”

Lydia shoots him a dirty look. 

“Hands in?” Stiles calls to their retreating backs. “No? Okay, cool. We can just leave then, without like, saying goodbye, or thanking Stiles for the food. That’s fine.”

Scott slips an arm around his shoulders, squeezing comfortingly. “Sleep at my house?”

Stiles knocks their heads together and sighs sadly. “Thanks buddy.”

Malia looks as them from halfway up the stairs, frowning. She’s wrapped in an afghan, giving Stiles an openly befuddled look. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were attractive,” she says honestly.

Stiles merely nods in understanding. “I get that a lot.”

**

Creepy pale vampire chick is standing on his porch when he gets home the next morning, fidgeting nervously. 

She shakes his hand, hers warm enough to make him flinch in surprise. 

"Sorry!" She apologises. "Warm hands."

“Er… Hi?” Stiles says, trying not to sound deranged and suspicious in case the twenty-to-one odds he’s got on this girl being a supernatural creature turn out to be less than fair. 

She smiles at him shyly, tucking a long streak of white blonde hair behind her ear. “Stiles, right?”

“How do you know my name?” He asks, a little too sharply. 

She takes a small step back, startled. 

“Oh, uh, your dad came over a couple of days ago when we moved in, introduced himself as the Sherriff, told us to call if we needed anything… He mentioned you, said you’d be able to show me around? I start school next week and it’d be cool if I didn’t act like a total newbie dweeb on my first day. I’m not that great at fitting in, and it’d be nice not to have a target on my back straight away, if, uh, you know what I mean.” 

She smiles self-deprecatingly.

“Right,” Stiles says slowly, because everything she’s saying makes sense, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Well I’m Stiles, as you, er, already know. I wasn’t exactly popular so I’m not sure I can really help you...”

“Oh! Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to tell me the secret to being cool or anything. I just don’t want to be picked on. I’d honestly be happy just being ignored,” She says in a voice that trembles, just a little.

Stiles heart twinges. _Not_ because he cares or anything, but because he gets it, and maybe with her blonde hair, big eyes and shy demeanour she reminds him a bit of pre-bite Erica. She might be a vampire, in which case it would benefit him to keep an eye on her. She might not be, in which case he’d blame himself if she started getting picked on in school and he could have done something to stop it. 

Stiles sighs. “We can go to the mall tomorrow. I’ll show you around, fill you in on the secrets of Beacon Hills High. Maybe we can see a movie or something.”

She smiles shyly, ducking her head. “Thank you Stiles.”

Stiles checks his phone. “Yeah don’t mention it.”

“It’s Jen by the way.”

“What is?” He asks distractedly, scrolling through his messenger notifications.

“My name?”

“Oh! Right, uh, nice to meet you Jen,” he says, surprising himself by being mostly sincere. Even if she is a blood-sucking vampire with an ulterior motive, maybe it’s not as bad as he originally thought. 

**

Dad watches him surreptitiously throughout dinner in a way that makes Stiles want to flush his drugs. Not that he has any drugs, but if he did he’d be ditching him. The last time dad levelled his cop face at him Stiles was sneaking Derek Hale in and out of his bedroom window every other night because he’d been beaten bloody by the alpha pack and was too injured to get home without passing out. Since Derek is off finding himself in Mexico or whatever, the cop face has to be about something else. He really hopes its not Donovan again. If he’s resurrected himself for the third time, Stiles might actually scream. 

“Are you waiting for a confession?”

“I don’t know. Do you feel compelled to confess to something?”

They stare at one another. 

“No,” Stiles says slowly, “but I feel like maybe you think I do? Which is strange because I haven’t really done anything worthy of the stakeout-face recently.”

“Stakeout-face?”

“Y’know, because you’re waiting to catch me in the act? Like—”

“— a stakeout,” the Sheriff finishes tiredly, “I get it.”

They keep staring. 

Stiles shovels some broccoli and beans into his mouth. 

The Sheriff’s face twitches like he might smile before smoothing out again. 

“A new Deputy transferred into my precinct today. Can’t say I was expecting it.”

Stiles frowns.

“Aren’t all new Deputies approved by you?”

“He’s not new, at least not in the traditional sense. Only eighteen months on the force, but he’s got an impressive arrest record. The government of Beacon County apparently thinks a more _proactive approach_ , I believe is how they put it, is needed to police the growing threat to the Beacon Hills population.”

“So they sent some walking, talking police brutality lawsuit down here to fix the problem? Geez, sounds like a great strategy. Idiots. You guys are the best police force in the state. They’re morons for thinking you need some trigger-happy hormone walking around half-cocked. Like _that_ isn’t going to cause problems.” 

Stiles snorts.

The Sherriff looks at him carefully. “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?” Stiles asks absently, picking the peas out of his mashed potatoes. 

“That my new Deputy is Derek Hale.” 

Stiles chokes and drops his fork. 

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Stiles grits his teeth. 

“I have to step out for a moment.”

“If by step out for a moment you mean get in your car, drive to Hale’s house and yell at him until his ears bleed, can you at least finish your dinner first?”

Stiles seethes quietly. “Fine, but I’m going to do it _aggressively_.”

“Whatever gets you through the meal kid.”

**

Stiles doesn’t knock when he gets to Derek’s loft. He reaches deep inside himself for the spark of power and coaxes it into a flame. Then, once it’s good and hot and _angry_ , he lets it explode outwards. 

The door blows off its hinges. 

Stiles strides through the entrance towards Derek, who hasn’t even bothered to look up from his book. He's wearing dorky thick-framed glasses that make him look like an Armani model posing as a dork, instead of the _actual_ dork he is, which only serves to make Stiles _angrier_. He rips the book out of Derek’s hands and throws it away. Something crashes to the floor and shatters, but Stiles can’t rip his eyes away from Derek’s infuriatingly placid face for long enough to feel guilty about it. 

“I see you kept your filthy sex dungeon.”

“I’m sleeping upstairs now,” Derek says, like this is a point in his favour, like the fact that he was sleeping in the living room of his creepy loft with no doors was _ever_ the problem. 

The couch, which used to be a bed, is a shade of rust orange Stiles would never have thought Derek would pick for himself. There’s a small pile of comfortable looking throw blankets on the opposite end to where Derek is sitting, and he’s got a navy one spread over his lap. There’s a cup tea on the window still. The porcelain, or maybe it’s china, looks hand-painted and expensive- a family heirloom maybe. 

“You have a couch,” he hisses, feeling strangely betrayed.

“Yes,” Derek says slowly.

“You have a job.”

He at least has the grace to look a little sheepish.

“You’re a _functioning member of society!_ ”

“Surprise?” Derek says, sounding unsure, and bizarrely open. Settled, in this place, but also within himself. Like he’s _home_. Like this loft is his house, and not just some place he goes to brood and wallow in his horrible life choices. 

Derek Hale, and he _seriously_ can’t believe he’s saying this, is well adjusted. Obviously the jaunt to Mexico did its job. Mission accomplished. Achievement unlocked. Derek Hale: whole, stable person. If only Derek’s life changing journey of self-discovery hadn’t also coincided with the worst supernatural crisis they had ever faced. 

“There were Dread Doctors,” Stiles says conversationally, the anger draining out of his tone. Derek must still sense something though because he tenses for the first time since Stiles blew in. “Not to mention this dickhead Theo who tried to kill Scott because he was too nice to be part of the Theo's pack of super villains. He also turned Kira into a roided-up Kitsune, and conspired to ramp Liam’s IED up to eleven by arranging for his almost-girlfriend to get killed, and then convincing him it was Scott’s fault. Scott, who he was systematically poisoning with wolfsbane by the way, to make him weak enough for Liam to kill and claim the title of alpha. He also tried to turn me into a serial killer. Like him. Because he drowned his sister in a lake when he was a kid, and then killed a bunch of other people in a power-hungry rampage a la your crazy Uncle Peter, who, by the way, is currently at large. Again. All this in between getting abducted by deranged scientists who experimented on people to try and turn them into chimeras. When they weren't abducting the pack for upgrades of course. Deranged scientists who, by the way, you forgot about the minute they were done experimenting on you. Basically, Derek Hale, shit went down.” He leans forward, arms braced on either side of the cushion behind Derek’s head. “Where _were_ you?”

Derek swallows. Stiles _sees_ it. It pisses him off. Derek never used to let himself look vulnerable.

“Stiles. I-”

“Don’t make excuses,” he interrupts, deathly quiet. “I’m not interested. Just tell me it was worth it. Tell me abandoning us to deal with all this shit by ourselves was worth whatever spirit walk, mystical personal journey of self-discovery you went on. Tell me you’d do it again if it meant you could have prevented some of the agony we went through. Tell me you would have gone anyway.”

Derek looks at him, pained and unmistakably _sorry_ , which only makes Stiles angrier. Derek never used to apologise for anything. 

“I can’t.”

“Then what use are you?” Stiles says viciously.

He walks out of the loft, leaving the remains of the door crumpled by the entrance. 

**

Deaton makes them pass the amulet around the circle, explaining the ruby was blessed by Tibetan Monks hundreds of years ago, making it susceptible to magical influence, before being acquired by an extremely powerful witch who managed to charm it as a gift for her daughter. Apparently the girl was being stalked by a Fae Prince who wanted to steal her away to the Nethersphere and make her his bride. Willingly or not. It was designed so that whenever anyone of unseelie blood got within a metre of the pendant it would banish them to the Nethersphere. 

Seeing as there was only one pendant, and no known way of recreating the charm, they had to decide who would keep it. 

“I vote not me!” Stiles pipes up immediately.

Everyone looks at him strangely.

“I know, usually I’d be all over the magic stuff, but it doesn’t react well to me for some reason.” Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Maybe I have, like, the magical equivalent of an allergy. Is that a thing?”

“No,” Deaton says, infinitely patient, “but for some reason your body _is_ rejecting the amulet’s magic.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. 

“Do you know why?”

Deaton shakes his head. “I have some theories, but nothing concrete. I would prefer not to extrapolate on them until I am certain what it is that is causing Stiles’ unusual reaction to the amulet.”

“Unusual reaction?” Stiles scoffed. “It burnt me. Talk about an overreaction.”

“It _burnt_ you?” Scott says, sounding panicked. He lunges across the circle and starts groping Stiles. “Let me see.”

“Okay, _geez_.” Stiles pushes Scott’s hands away and pulls down his shirt collar, exposing the gauze. “Happy?”

“No,” Scott says, whining at the bandage, staring like he can will it away with his mind.

Deaton sighs and carefully removes the gauze. 

Stiles holds his arms out. 

“There, happy now?”

Scott frowns, looking between Stiles and Deaton, hurt creeping onto his face. 

“Is this some kind of joke guys, because it’s not funny.”

“My incredibly painful and not at all funny burn is not a joke Scott,” Stiles says blankly.

“Stiles…” Kira trails off.

“There’s no burn,” Malia says bluntly. “You don’t even smell injured. You didn’t smell injured yesterday either.”

“She’s right,” Liam says, shifting uneasily. “You smelt like blood, but there was no pain. I thought it was just animal blood.”

Scott frowns. “Me too. I get blood on me sometimes when I’m working. I just assumed you’d helped Deaton out with a patient.”

“I didn’t,” Stiles says, looking at Deaton for back-up. “I didn’t even make it past the office before the sprite attacked us.”

Deaton nods, bending to examine the smooth skin of his chest, “Remarkable,” he whispers. “If I remember correctly, you also had two small cuts on your cheek, one on your hand, and a number of claw marks on your throat.”

Stiles runs his hand over his throat, feeling the smooth skin, remembering the girls claws digging into his flesh, the feeling of hot blood as it ran down his throat.

“If I didn’t know any better, Stiles, I’d say you had werewolf healing, but since I do, I think there is another explanation.”

“Which is?” Lydia prompts, crossing her arms.

“Nothing I can explain at this time. I must seek answers myself first.” Deaton meets his eyes. “Tell me Stiles, did anything else happen when the sprite touched you, anything out of the ordinary?”

Stiles swallows. “I screamed.”

Deaton frowns. “Screamed how?”

“Like her. I screamed like her.” Stiles rubs a hand over his throat, remembering the feeling of being stuffed full of something infinite, of feeling like the wind was rushing out of his throat, burning up his insides. “It hurt. A lot.”

Deaton looks thoughtful. 

Never a good sign, that.

“I have a theory. I need to go away for a few days to confirm it.” He looks at Scott. “You’re on your own until then.”

Scott nods, sending Stiles a concerned look, before looking back at Deaton. “Please, just find out what’s wrong with him. We can handle things here.”

**

They give Kira the amulet because she’s the fastest and has the best hearing, so she’s the most likely to be able to be where they need her to be at a moment’s notice.

Mal’s Diner is kind of slow on a Wednesday so Stiles gets his double malt chocolate milkshake in about two minutes. He makes an unholy noise of pleasure when he takes his first sip that is _completely_ worth the dirty look Lydia shoots him across the table. Lydia, of course, is sipping on a low fat, low carb banana smoothie with the look of someone who is completely ignorant of the joys of malt and chocolate mixed together with full fat milk, ice cream, and cream.

“Come one Lyds, just one sip,” he goads, waggling his eyebrows and basically doing anything humanly possible to get her to give in. 

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “No.”

“Pleeeeeease?”

“No.”

“I’ll do your Intro to Biology essay.”

“You’re in Intro to Biology.” 

“Yes but I’m doing my degree online first year. _You_ are shlubbing it on campus. Wouldn’t you prefer to be going to keggers, taunting frat boys with what they can’t have, making wannabe sorority bitches cry out of sheer jealousy? Isn’t _that_ your idea of a perfect freshman year?”

“My idea of a perfect freshman year is the fast track to honours, which, unfortunately, includes acing Biology. Even the essay portion.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“I don’t think you can be bothered,” Lydia corrects, smirking.

“I’m better at essays than you.”

“I’m better at staying on topic. I’ll take my chances.”

Stiles steeples his fingers. 

“What’ll it take?”

Lydia smiles serenely, which is how Stiles knows she’s got something truly diabolical in mind. 

“The truth.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re in such a foul mood.”

Stiles scoffs. “I have magical werewolf healing powers, the origins of which, I have no idea. Also, Deaton is stonewalling us, _again_.” 

“Try again.”

“Dad accused me of keeping secrets again last night, and it brought up a lot of baggage from when he didn’t trust me to leave the house on my own.”

“Hmm… Closer, but still not it.”

“Scott suffers from memory loss. Namely, remembering to get off his high-horse and admit he’s made mistakes like the rest of us.”

“Juicy, but still not what I’m looking for. I applaud your honesty though.” Lydia searches his eyes. “Why are you avoiding this?”

“Because the moment I talk about it, I have to deal with it.”

Lydia leans back in her red diner booth seat. She laces her fingers together, placing her clasped hands on the table top. It’s as close to having Lydia Martin’s full attention that Stiles has ever gotten. 

“Then you better say it before the others get here.”

Their eyes catch and hold.

“Derek Hale’s back.”

Lydia doesn’t react, except for her lips to pinch ever so slightly.

“Ah.”

“He’s working for my dad. As a Deputy.”

“…Derek,” Lydia says. She does a remarkable job of keeping the disbelief out of her voice, but Stiles hears it anyway.

“He’s… different.”

Lydia raises and eyebrow. 

“You saw him?”

“You could say that. You could also say I blew the loft door off its hinges and went after him with the restraint of a Doberman running down the Postman.”

“Derek ran away. From you.”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. He’s different. Open. Less guarded.” 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, grasping at the ends in frustration. 

“He owns a _couch_.”

This time Lydia’s surprise is palpable.

“Really?”

“It’s orange.”

“Like a sunset?”

Stiles looks away from her.

“Like Autumn,” he says quietly.

Lydia’s eyes drop to the tabletop. 

“We have to tell them.”

“I know.”

They don’t talk for a while after that.

**

Predictably, Scott overreacts.

Upon hearing that their fail of a former Alpha has returned, fresh with shiny new personality upgrade, he’s on his feet and demanding they go to the loft. 

Ever since he and Derek has their magical Aztec tomb bonding experience down in Mexico, Scott has completely back flipped on his opinion of Derek Hale. Back when shit was going down with the Benefactor (aka Peter Hale, because _of course_ ), he was relieved that Scott was no longer cutting them off from their one source of supernatural know how that didn’t speak in riddles. Now, he can’t find it in himself to be relieved. Derek had run off to Mexico and left them for dead, and Scott was acting like all the shit that went down last year wouldn’t have gone easier if Derek had stuck around and done his duty as a fucking Hale to police Beacon Hills from Supernatural threats. Scott was acting like it didn’t matter that Derek had abandoned them when they needed him the most. 

If he thought about it logically, Stiles knew he was overreacting. Derek has lost his whole family because they took their responsibility to Beacon Hills seriously enough that they attracted the attention of the wrong hunter. His only remaining family had been killed by his only other remaining family in the pursuit of power. Derek had brought Peter to justice. Then he did the best he could in his sister’s place. Derek was a middle child in a large family. He was never meant to be Alpha. He did the best he could for as long as he could. 

It doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t angry. It just means he understands why Derek needed to run. 

Still, Scott should be angry. Not bouncing around in the passenger seat of his car like a hyperactive two-year-old. 

They pull up outside Derek’s four story walk-up. Scott stops just short of opening the door like he can sense Stiles' conflicted mood.

“What happened, when you went to see him last night?”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair.

“Nothing good.” He opens his door. “Let’s go.”

Scott catches his arm. 

“You know you can talk to me right? About anything.” Scott glances up at Derek’s city-side window and back at Stiles meaningfully. Subtlety, not one of Scott McCall’s gifts. “I mean it Stiles.”

Stiles clasps his arm. 

“I know you do buddy, but I’m pretty sure you know _exactly_ how I feel about Derek Hale. No need to rehash the obvious.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, a funny look crossing his face. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

Lydia and Malia meet them in the car park. Kira, Liam and Jordan elected to stay behind seeing as they were neither the bastard offspring of Derek’s crazy uncle, or didn’t really know him when he was their walking talking supernatural encyclopaedia. Malia looks kind of excited to be seeing her kinda-sorta cousin, Lydia looks flawless as always, like a perfectly polished diamond, and it’s better for Stiles not to think about how he’s doing. Mostly he’s wondering if Derek’s managed to get the door back on its hinges yet. Scott, looking, if not the most normal, then the most casual, sets off at a loping pace, leading them up the stairs.

When they get to Derek’s front door Stiles is surprised to see it is on its hinges, and finds himself reluctantly impressed. He’d even somehow cleaned the scorch marks off the metal. Lydia spares him a wry look, and he ducks his head- out of shame, embarrassment, or smug pride he’s not sure. Maybe all three. 

Scott, because he’s Scott, knocks. Derek would have heard them coming from the second floor landing and probably would have recognised their heartbeats by the third, but Scott was raised by Melissa and his Abuela, which means he always knocks, and he always brings a gift. Which is why, when Derek answers the doors, he’s greeted by a grinning Scott and a takeaway chocolate malt milkshake from Mal’s Diner. 

Derek takes the milkshake. He has his reading glasses tucked into the vee-neck of his sweater today and he looks slightly more normal. More Derek Hale. If it wasn’t, of course, for the guileless expression and the small, but genuine, smile tilting his mouth upwards.

“Thanks Scott,” he says, pulling him into a short hug that Scott turns into a full on embrace the _second_ Derek’s close enough.

“Glad to have you back,” Scott says into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek lets out something that might, technically, be a laugh and Stiles goggles, looking at Lydia who looks, if not disturbed, then legitimately surprised. Lydia Marin, surprised twice in one day. Will the wonders never cease?

Derek pulls away from Scott and ushers them in. He gives Malia a hug when she all but throws herself at him, babbling that she’s never had a cousin before, but she’d really _really_ like to, because he seems less grouchy now. Lydia he greets with a respectful nod, looking warm and welcoming as he directs her to the bathroom down the hall. Stiles he looks at only briefly, something complicated and conflicted passing over his face before he settles on a look of similar, if not slightly more muted warmth than the one he gave Lydia. Derek doesn’t attempt to touch him. 

Malia claims the spot on the couch next to Derek before Scott can, winding their arms together and shooting Scott a smug look. Scott settles next to Malia, apparently trying to content himself with the second best position, although Stiles is sure he’s stepped into an alternate dimension if the seat next to Derek Hale is suddenly the most popular seat in the room. He makes a point, while Lydia’s still in the bathroom, to sit in the seat furthest away from Derek. He doesn’t want it to look he wants to sit closer to Derek than absolutely necessary. Because he doesn’t. 

Because Derek is a dick. 

The Derek is a dick theory is sorely tested after Lydia comes out of the bathroom and Derek offers her his seat so she doesn’t have to sit between the cushions; and when Scott spills coffee on his top and Derek comes back with a stain remover and a tub to soak the shirt in; and also when Malia admits quietly, after they’d all shared their Christmas stories, that she and her dad didn’t have a tree over the holidays because the smell reminded Malia too much of the woods and she couldn’t stay in the house too long without feeling like she had to shift. Derek looks thoughtful, telling her that for a lot of Were’s trauma is linked to their noses, that for a long time he had trouble smelling fire without remembering _the_ fire. Stiles knows he’s really in trouble when Derek smiles, _really_ smiles, and offers to teach Malia how to associate triggering smells with something pleasant.

Malia nods, luminously happy in a way that makes Stiles super proud he lost his virginity to her, but also kind of regretful they didn’t last. It wasn’t a bad break up, and they’re better friends than they ever were boyfriend and girlfriend, but Stiles still wonders sometimes what it would have been like if they could’ve made it work. 

Derek looks at Stiles, glancing between his full coffee mug and the way he’s sitting on the very edge of the couch. Stiles looks away, trying not to feel intimidated by the scrutiny. It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't. Derek always did have a way of crawling under his skin.

Scott’s in the middle of explaining about the sprites, and the possible Fae invasion when Stiles’ supernaturally healing injuries come up.

Derek frowns.

“You healed, just like that?”

“Deaton’s looking into it. We really don’t need your two cents,” Stiles says with a boat load of false kindness.

“We really do,” Scott says instead, sending him a quick, sharp look. “Seriously, have you ever heard of supernatural healing happening with humans?”

Derek looks at Stiles for a long moment.

“No. I haven’t. Not in any context that would apply here.”

Lydia leans forward before Stiles can make a derisive comment about that answer being needlessly vague. 

“So there _are_ contexts.”

Derek hesitates.

“Yes.”

All three of them rivet their attention on Derek. Stiles wants to scoff. Seriously, the day Derek Hale knows anything that actually ends up being useful is the day Stiles rides off with him into the sunset. 

“It would require a connection with another supernatural being. A bond. Unless Stiles has bonded with any of you, him healing like us should be impossible. As far as I know.”

“And how far is that?” Stiles asks sweetly.

“Stiles,” Malia growls, “don’t be mean to my cousin.”

She smiles up at Derek adoringly. He looks a little bemused, and a lot surprised by her attention. 

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Stiles and I are close,” Scott says instantly. “We’re bonded.”

Stiles cheeks flush immediately, and he wants to bury his face in is hands.

Derek’s smile twitches. 

It must hurt to resist your inner asshole, Stiles thinks viciously. 

“Not that kind of bond,” Derek says simply. “It would have to be romantic, deeply so. Love.”

Scott blinks. “Oh, uh, no then.” 

He looks at Stiles guiltily, like he’s sorry he’s not in gay love with him.

“Dude,” says Stiles. “No.”

Malia looks thoughtful.

“Stiles and I used to fuck. Like, a lot. Does that count?”

Stiles closes his eyes so he can’t see the look on Derek’s face. It doesn’t stop him from hearing the laugh in the bastards voice though. 

“I don’t know. Were you in love?”

Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek looking at Malia as she ponders her answer. Stiles is less worried about whether she’s in love with him, than the curious brightness in Derek’s eyes and the way Stiles suspects he’s biting down on his tongue to keep from laughing. 

Stiles catches Lydia staring and raises his brows at her. She gives him a deadpan look, like he’s a lost cause she’s already decided is too tragic to waste her energy on. 

“No,” Malia decides. “I love him, but, like, how I love Scott- if every now and then I also wanted to bone Scott, which I don’t,” she says reassuringly, patting Scott on the arm, who looks oddly offended for a man with a steady girlfriend. 

Stiles feels strangely okay with that. There was a time he thought he and Malia might have been something wonderful, but it’s over now, and he’s more okay with that than he would’ve thought. He’ll never be _happy_ about it, because Malia is gorgeous, and wonderful, and funny, and everything he’s ever wanted in a partner. But he’s made his peace with the realisation that despite all the ways they fit together, they just don’t fit _right_ anymore. And that’s okay.

There’s a bit of an awkward moment where Stiles can tell that Derek wants to ask Lydia if she’s the one giving Stiles healing mojo, being a supernatural creature herself, but stops himself. He looks at Stiles, and he shakes his head as subtly as possible. Not subtly enough to get it past Lydia of course, but enough that Derek won’t bring it up in conversation. He’s not bonded with Lydia, and he wouldn’t want to be. Not anymore. They’re past that, and Stiles can honestly say he likes Lydia enough to never open himself up to being infatuated with her ever again. It’s hard to really see someone when you’re got stars in your eyes, and Stiles wouldn’t want to stop seeing Lydia Martin in full, glorious technicolour for anything. 

“And there’s no one else?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head. 

“I’m not in love with anyone,” he says simply.

Scott and Derek’s heads snap up at the same time.

“You’re lying,” Scott says.

“I am not!” Stiles says, offended.

Scott’s face spasms.

“No…” he says, looking horribly confused, “you’re not.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re in love without knowing you are,” Derek says.

Stiles’ heart beats a little quicker.

“That’s impossible.”

Derek shakes his head, leaning forward on folded arms, eyes intense and far too green.

“No. It means your subconscious mind knows something you don’t. It means your heart knows something your brain doesn’t.”

Stiles swallows.

“Whoever it is would have to love me back for this to have happened, for me to be healing.”

“Yes,” Derek says simply.

“I don’t know anyone who loves me,” Stiles says honestly.

Derek’s face does something complicated, turning strained and kind of awkward. 

Pity, Stiles decides, is not an attractive look on Derek Hale.

“Whatever,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not like it matters.”

Derek shakes his head, looking abruptly alarmed. 

“No, you don’t understand. This bond will run both ways. Whoever you're tied to will be experiencing symptoms too.”

“Like what?” 

“It’s difficult to know since technically you’re human, but you’re also a druid. It could be anything from spontaneous magic, to inherited personality quirks. There will be bleed-through, personality, magical. It’s hard to know.”

“Great. So we’ve got two Stiles’ running around Beacon Hills. How wonderful,” Malia grumbles, slumping backwards and pouting like a grumpy cat.

Before Stiles can muster any proper outrage, Lydia cuts him off, suggesting they stop talking about Stiles’ love life and start talking about how they’re going to deal with the Fae—at which point Cora walks in carrying a Big Gulp, a book-bag stuffed to bursting slung over her shoulder. 

“Hey,” she says, like she didn’t fuck off to South America with absolutely no explanation, like, two years ago. 

“Soooo,” Stiles says after the requisite moment of awkward silence, “how was the mother country? I hear Sao Paulo is still recovering.”

“Hot,” Cora drawls, “how was quality time with your right hand?”

“Oh, y’know, what he lacks in charm he makes up for in hard work and determination.”

Cora raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m sure.”

Derek clears his throat, looking thunderous in a way that’s as familiar as it is frightening.

“Are you done flirting with my sister?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Dunno, might finish up with an innuendo, just to keep things fresh.”

Derek frowns.

“Trust me Stiles,” Cora says, looking amused. “There’s nothing fresh about you. Don’t worry, I hear some people like that.”

She looks at Derek slyly, and his frown only deepens.

“Well if you find them, point them my way.”

“Oh trust me I’m trying.”

Derek growls and it’s as close to normal as Stiles’ felt in the past year.

“Can we discuss the Fae issue, please?”

They do. Derek, it turns out, is amicable about the idea of negotiating first, stabbing later (proving to Stiles that this is actually a parallel universe), pointing out that if they knew their motives for crossing over to our dimension, it’d be a lot easier to negotiate a treaty. Lydia decides she’s going to make it her mission to figure out a way to talk to the Fae so that when it comes time to negotiate, they have an open line of communication. Stiles discusses creating charms that might help protect the pack from harm. Since only the amulet can banish the Fae, it means he will have to find another way to protect the pack. Derek and Cora volunteer to check the Hale house for Peter’s old stash of lore, and what books remain of the Hale’s personal library here in the loft. Derek avoids Stiles’ eyes when he says he’ll have the relevant books to him by tomorrow, and Stiles avoids him right back. Malia, apparently excited beyond words to have yet _another_ cousin in her life, is determined to spend as much time with Derek and Cora as possible, and volunteers immediately for the same tasks they do. No one really has the heart to tell her they don’t really need a third person. Besides, Stiles thinks, it’s nice to see them together, a family just starting to learn how they fit. They deserve that much, he thinks. Derek catches his eye, like maybe he’s thinking something similar. They deserve to be happy. Even Derek.

**

Stiles goes to the movies with creepy pale vampire chi— Jen. 

Because he promised, and also because he’s a sucker for anything Meryl Streep gets her hands on, and is therefore totally in for another movie in which Meryl is the matriarch of a dysfunctional family of weirdos and is, inexplicably, the weirdest of them all despite Will Ferrel being in the movie (who, for some glorious, beautiful reason that does not ever need explained, ends up marrying her slightly less crazy, slutty sister). 

Jen’s pretty cool, which Stiles spends a pathetic amount of time trying to ignore, because she might still be a vampire, and also because it makes him uncomfortable to think he’s possibly judging someone _solely_ based on their appearance to the extent that he’s suspicious they’re a bloodsucking murderer. 

She quizzes him on Beacon Hills High. Seeing as he just finished his senior year and she’s going into hers, he gives her the best survival tips: don’t look Mrs. McCreedy (the school librarian with the wonky eyebrow) in the eyes because she’ll be suspicious that you’re up to something the _entire_ time you’re in the library and will not let you out of sight for more than five minutes at a time; don’t eat the beans in the cafeteria, because one time he and Scott found boxes stacked by the dumpster out back that said they came from the same place army rations did; don’t get paired up with Greenberg for anything (poor guy is repeating on account of being a human punching bag); and never _ever_ look behind the bleachers without permission. Jen makes a face at the last rule and Stiles is forced to tell her about the time he and Scott found Mr. Harris and Mrs. Jenkins sharing a cigarette, looking distinctly post-coital.

“Right,” she says. “No bleachers.”

“No bleachers,” Stiles conforms solemnly. 

They throw their empty ice-cream cups in the bin and Stile shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“So, you feeling more prepared?”

“Sure. I mean, I’m not scared or anything, I just want to make a good first impression. Or, well, at least not fall on my face or do anything embarrassing. I’d even settle for making _no_ impression,” she says, fiddling with the straps of her shoulder bag.

Stiles smiles ruefully, thinking of how invisible he'd felt before Scott became a werewolf, before he became friends with Lydia, Allison, Malia and Kira. 

“That I understand. Just don’t overthink it. I know it’s the most annoying, cliché advice in history, but be yourself. You’re awesome. It’s enough,” he assures her.

Jen looks up at him, surprised and a little pleased.

“You think I’m awesome?”

“Oh, uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t hang out with people I don’t like at least a little. That’d be stupid.”

Jen grins and ducks her head.

“You’re really nice Stiles,” she says quietly.

He bumps their shoulders together, happy to have made another friend. Even if she is a maybe-vampire. 

“Ditto,” he says with a wink that makes her giggle.

There’s a warm feeling in his chest, radiating from where she’s got her hand tucked into the bend of his elbow, like pure sunlight’s being poured into his skin.

He smiles at her, feeling wonderfully close to content for the first time in a long time. 

**

Stiles dreams of a meadow, and a lake. There’s a beautiful woman with long brown hair and eyes like smouldering coals bathing there. She’s wringing water out of her hair, unselfconscious in her nudity, when a figure approaches her from the trees. Stiles watches from the river bank as it creeps closer to the water. It’s nothing human, though it looks human enough in shape, creeping silently through the shadows, almost like a shadow itself. Stiles watches the woman come alert as it steps out into the sunlight. She freezes mid-turn, like looking will be the thing that makes her escape impossible. 

Stiles looks. He can’t help it.

The things isn’t human, but it’s trying to be. Somehow he can _feel_ it; feel the way it’s rending itself inside to make room for a humanity that can never exist. It’s a perversion. Unnatural.

He can’t look away.

The creature is made of brambles, smooth black skin, more like polished volcanic glass than anything human, peeks out from between the winding vines and sprigs of berries. It’s face shines, translucent like smoky quartz in the sun. It’s beautiful in its own way. Something untouchable, inhuman, and glorious for being so.

It would be worshipped, revered, if not for the way it looked at woman: hungry, covetous, like a predator. Before today she had successfully avoided the creatures attention, had made sure to never leave the village without an escort, to always tell mother where she was going; but the spring water had looked so lovely, and she had not bathed in such clear water for months. It was a test of temptation, and she had failed, as the creature knew she would. He knows her, knows she belongs in the water, that she was made for it, from it. He watched her bathe herself, a violent, poisonous lust building in his heart the longer he surveyed what his temptation had reaped.

He waited until she’d had her fill of the water before he advanced upon her. He wanted her joyful in the water before he ruined her with it. It was the only kindness he could give. The thought of stopping, walking away, never occurred to him. He was a Prince. He had never been denied anything his whole life. This was no different.

Stiles watched as he waded out to her, watched as her trembling increased the closer he got. Stiles wanted to run out to her, to pull him away, to tell her to run, but he couldn’t move. Stiles could only watch, wide-eyed, riveted and horrified, as the creature placed his hands on the woman and dragged her struggling body to the shallows. Could only watch as he threw her down and forced her legs apart, as he carved a place for himself within her again, and again, and again…

Stiles wakes up sick to his stomach and dizzy with fever. He curls up into the foetal position, takes a couple of pain-killers he has in his bedside drawer from the mild brush with flu he had three weeks ago, and drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the morning. 

He doesn’t dream. 

**

Stiles is sewing a complicated Celtic protection rune into a segment of blessed leather when Scott calls and tells him to get to the hospital.

When he arrives Scott and Melissa are both backed into the corner of a paediatrics waiting room, surrounded by a semi-circle of children with glowing green eyes.

“Scott,” he hisses. Scott looks up at him, slightly frantic and looking entirely ill-equipped to handle an evil army of prepubescent children.

“Stiles,” he says, relieved.

“Where’s Kira?”

“She’s helping Lydia and Parish. They have them trapped inside the Martin house.”

“We thought,” Melissa says slowly, “since this is a public place there’s less of a chance they’d try and… y’know.”

“She’ll be here soon,” Scott says, in the tone of a man who’s spent a lot of time thinking the same thing.

The army of evil children aren’t really doing anything, just staring, and looking way too creepy for comfort. Stiles shifts uneasily.

“Why aren’t they noticing you?” Melissa asks.

Stiles holds up his wrist so they can see the complicated tangle of runes woven into the strap around his wrist. “Notice-me-not,” he says meaningfully.

In completely creepy unison, the children take a step towards Scott and Melissa, sending them scrambling back into a pile of lego’s. They reach out their arms. Stiles has an awful sense of Déjà vu.

“Run,” Stiles yelps, pushing his way through the circle, sending children scattering like bowling pins. He grabs Scott and Melissa’s wrists, both of whom look identically appalled. 

“Oh, come on!”

They round the corner just as the sound of half a dozen small feet start thumping the floor. 

“They’re just kids!” Melissa says.

“They’re evil,” Stiles hisses back.

“Don’t say that! Some of them have cancer!”

“Some of them are vessels for evil Fae spirits!”

“Guys is this really the time?” Scott yelps, shoving them into the closest elevator.

The doors close, but not before a couple of chubby fingers get wedged in the crack.

Melissa looks horrified and Scott looks sick, so Stiles beats at the appendages until the sprites screech and pull their hands back. 

The elevator dings as they reach the ground floor. Melissa sends Stiles an unimpressed look, grabbing him by the arm and directing him towards the lobby, while Scott stays behind to check for more sprites. 

“I don’t _enjoy_ hurting children,” he tells her, because it’s probably necessary at this point.

Melissa looks at him, fond and a little exasperated.

“I know Stiles.” She slips an arm around his shoulders. “You just remind me of your mother sometimes.”

Stiles looks at her, surprised. 

“My mother?”

Melissa grins.

“She _hated_ kids.”

Stiles goggles.

“She did not! I’ll have you know she adored me, and she didn’t seem to mind Scott too much either.”

Melissa laughs, pushing Stiles down into the closest empty chair so she can check him over for injuries. Stiles surrenders to the process, knowing there’s no use arguing. 

“It took her a while to warm up to Scott. Not too long though. He was always easy to love.” Melissa smiles softly. “You though, you she adored from the minute she gave birth to you. I was there when she delivered you know.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t.”

“I was pregnant with Scott, but not so far along that I couldn’t work. I knew Claudia because of your father, but I’d only met her a couple of times in passing, at the grocery store, the mall, that kind of thing. I was walking past her delivery room on the way to a patients room when she called out to me. She told her current nurse to, well, ‘fuck off’, and demanded I assist the midwives through the delivery instead. The other nurse was fired for incompetence later that year. We became pretty close after that. I’ll never forget the look on her face as she held you…”

Melissa trails of and something thick and aching builds in Stiles’ throat.

“What?”

Melissa runs a hand through his hair, cupping the back of his skull gently.

“I’ve seen a lot of new mothers look at their children, and it’s always the same look: unimaginable joy, a good helping of relief, and of course, love. But your mother. Your mother looked at you like she’d raise cities to keep you safe. I’ve never seen such strong devotion,” Melissa squeezes his head fondly, and Stiles pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes, “until I met you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers after a moment.

Stiles wipes his eyes, and Melissa pulls him to his feet.

“Let’s go check on Scott.”

**

Scott is backed against the wall, surrounded by children. They arrive just in time to see Kira take a running leap over the heads of the children, duck and roll so she’s standing in front of Scott, eyes flashing. She steps towards them, and they vanish as one, shimmering out of existence. 

Scott pulls her into a hug.

“What happened?”

“There were dozens of them at Lydia’s,” Kira says, something strained and almost panicked in her voice. “We’ve got to go.”

Stiles steps forward.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Kira swallows, looking wild around the eyes.

“Kira?” Scott prompts.

“They took Liam.” She swallows. “I didn’t get there in time.”

Scott closes his eyes.

“Lydia and Parish captured one of the sprites. She’s trying to find a way to communicate with it.”

“What happened to peaceful negotiations?” Melissa asks.

“I think that went out the door the minute they took Liam,” Stiles says, fingering the charm around his wrist. “We should get to Lydia’s.”

“We should tell Derek and Cora.”

Stiles’ face scrunches up before he can stop it, and Scott grabs his arm. 

“We’ll meet you at the car,” he tells Kira.

Melissa kisses his cheek.

“You be careful.”

Scott ducks his head, and Melissa ruffles hair before she walks off to help with the chaos of the emergency room.

Once she’s gone, Scott looks at him, searching his eyes.

“You need to get over this thing with Derek.”

Stiles scoffs.

“Oh that’s _rich_ coming from you.”

Scott blinks, like he’s surprised.

“What?”

“You hated Derek for ages, and then you had some magical bromantic post-Mexico pow-wow and suddenly you were best buds!” 

“I was wrong about him,” Scott says softly, “I know better now. So do you. You were always telling me we were better off using Derek as a resource rather than leaving him out of the loop. I don’t think your opinion’s changed.”

Stiles fidgets.

“No. It hasn’t.”

Scott nods like he’s pleased, like he’s won.

“Good, then let’s use him.”

Stiles jaw clenches and Scott hesitates, placing a hand on his arm.

“Look, I know he hurt you when he left.”

“He didn’t.”

Scott looks at him, unimpressed.

“I know he hurt you,” he repeats, “but he’s here now and we need him.”

They stare at each other for a few moments. Stiles lets out a breath, feeling like all the wind’s gone out of him.

“Fine,” he concedes, “but I don’t have to like it.”

Scott grins, clasping his shoulder.

“I’d never expect you to.”

They pick up Derek and Cora on their way through. Cora looks intimidatingly relaxed in the back seat, but Derek looks like a parent stuffed into a kid’s amusement park ride. Stiles takes a perverse kind of pleasure in his discomfort. He’s also not wearing his leather jacket. Stiles had just kind of assumed Derek hadn’t been wearing the jacket since, well, leather wasn’t really an ‘around the house’, kind of attire. Now, watching the fitted olive sweater stretch over Derek’s collarbones, he’s becoming increasingly sure Derek’s been replaced with a pod person.

“So, is leather last season, or did you suffer some freak accident that altered your fashion sense as well as your personality?”

Scott glares at him, but Stiles ignores it.

Derek catches his eyes in the rear-view mirror, and the bastard’s _smiling_.

“No,” he says, voice rich and amused, “but it might have been cheaper than the half-day I spent buying the Banana Republic men’s winter catalogue.”

“Of _course_ you shop at Banana Republic,” Stiles says, quietly seething. “That is such a _you_ thing to do.”

Derek, the bastard, sounds like he’s holding back a laugh. Their eyes meet and hold in the mirror. Stiles’ heart picks up.

“If you two are done flirting,” Cora drawls, “we’re almost there.”

Derek sobers immediately, and Stiles hopes his cheeks aren’t flushing. 

Him and Derek. Flirting. Pfft. What a ridiculous idea. Even in the bastard hadn’t abandoned them all in their hour of need, he’s like a million years older and more defective than Stiles. Or, well, he was when he was all growly and completely failed at life. Now Stiles isn’t so sure— which is annoying.

When they get inside the Martin house, there’s a very familiar little girl tied to a chair.

“Oh fuck me,” Stiles groans.

Derek clears his throat, and Cora sends him a shit eating grin.

“What?” asks Scott, coming up beside him.

“It’s the girl from Deaton’s clinic.”

Lydia hums thoughtfully. She’s standing in front of the girl, holding an old book, looking like all of Stiles’ stern teacher fantasies come to life. 

“She came back,” she says, lips twisting into the beginnings of a smirk. “Which means, whatever they’re doing here, there’s not enough of them that they can afford to be banished and stay banished for long.”

“It takes a lot of energy to cross dimensions,” Derek says, coming to stand beside Scott. “More than any of these sprites could manage. They can’t even build themselves bodies. They have to steal them. There’s no way they could cross dimensions alone.”

“Which means someone’s letting them though,” Scott says. 

He and Derek share a look.

“How do we find out who it is?” Parish asks.

“We should put an APB out on her,” Derek says.

He and Parish look at one another.

“Yeah,” Parish says, “one of us could volunteer to coordinate it.”

“See who comes looking,” Derek finishes.

“Woah, hold up!” Stiles says, looking between the two, because apparently they’ve both gone insane. “There’s no way you’d draw a supernatural creature out into the open with a missing person’s report. Whatever’s orchestrating this isn’t human, which means it probably has no idea what an APB is, never mind the fact that this kid is just a foot soldier. There’s not guarantee it’s even going to care that she’s missing.”

Parish shakes his head.

“You’re missing the point.” Parish points at the girl. “She’s a _child_. With a real family who, for whatever reason, obviously haven’t noticed she’s missing yet.”

“Yeah, why is that?” Kira interjects, sounding put-out. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says, crossing his arms. Stiles tries really hard not to notice the way it makes his biceps bulge and his pecks look kind of, er, lickable. Cora smirks at Stiles. “What matters is that an amber alert will be put out, volunteer search parties will scour the area, word will spread that children are going missing in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles breath catches. 

“The entire county will be mobilised,” Stiles says. He looks at Derek. “You want to draw it out into the open. You want to force its hand. If the sprites have no access to children’s bodies, then it will have to come itself.”

Derek nods and doesn’t break eye-contact. Stiles licks his lips and Derek’s eyes follow the movement.

“What about Liam?” Scott asks, crossing his arms, looking troubled. “If we do this, they might hurt him.”

Derek looks at Scott, sympathy in his eyes. 

“I don’t think we have any other choice,” he says.

Scott nods, agreeing, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

“Okay, but we need to get him back as quickly as possible. I don’t want him hurt.”

Kira rubs his arm comfortingly.

Scott turns his attention to Lydia.

“How’s the translation coming?”

Lydia purses her lips, looking at the girl like she’s a complicated math problem.

“Well,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “seeing as when she speaks all I hear is a prolonged shriek, not very well.”

Scott frowns. 

“Are you sure she’s not just screaming.”

Lydia shakes her head.

“I’m a banshee. I know what a scream sounds like. She’s trying to communicate.” Lydia steps closer to the girl and crouches so they’re at eye level. “Look.”

Stiles watches as Lydia reaches out and touches the girls hand. Her eyes snap up and her mouth opens. Stiles flinches, preparing for the scream, so he’s taken completely off-guard when the girl _speaks_.

“My master will destroy you,” she says sweetly, voice lilting and soft like a trickling stream. “He will paint this world red with your blood and his dominion will last all the ages this world has to give.”

“Hey!” Stiles says, walking up to her and wagging his finger in her face. “ _Rude_.”

The girl looks up at him, eyes wide and startled. When their eyes lock, hers flash white. 

She smiles, slowly and with too many teeth.

“You can understand me,” she says, slow and indulgent, like she’s savouring his attention.

“You’re speaking English,” Stiles says, looking at her strangely. “Of course I can understand you. Are you high? Can sprites even get high?”

Her grin stretches wider, and Stiles tries not to shudder. _This_ is why he hates kids. 

“Am I?”

Stiles frowns and looks around at the pack, who’re all staring at him with varying expressions of incredulity. They all, also, have their hands over their ears.

“Stiles,” Scott says slowly, looking shell-shocked. “Since when can you speak fairy?”

“Fae,” Lydia corrects mildly, staring at Stiles like he’s a puzzle. “The name is the same as the species.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says, “last I checked I could only speak English and some really broken Spanish thanks to you Abuela.”

Scott’s face does something complicated, and Derek touches his shoulder before stepping forward. He approaches Stiles carefully, like he’s a live bomb. Stiles fidgets, uncomfortable and starting to get a little freaked out.

“Derek?” He says, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

“It’s okay,” Derek says. “You’re going to be okay.”

“They’re afraid of you,” the sprite whispers.

Immediately everyone slams their hands over their ears, faces contorting.

“What did you do to me?” Stiles whispers, voice shaking. “What did you _do_?”

The sprite raises an eyebrow. 

“Me? Nothing really. Didn’t shove a babel fish in your ear if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Stiles almost trips on the spot in surprise.

“ _You’ve_ read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”

The sprite rolls her eyes.

“Did you seriously think Douglas Adam’s was human?” 

“I never really thought about it,” Stiles says lightly.

“Stiles,” Derek grits out. “Hurry up.”

Stiles swallows.

“Right.” He faces the sprite. “What did you do to me?”

She smiles, warm and mischievous. 

“I lifted the veil.”

“What does that mean.”

The sprite leans forward as far as her bonds allow.

“It means, dear one, that I brought out your green blood.” She smiles then, manic and little unhinged. “The master will be pleased.”

Stiles swallows. 

“Master? Who’s your master?”

The sprite laughs. Derek grunts and falls to the floor. Lydia slumps against the wall. Someone whimpers in pain.

“Oh dear heart,” she says, sad and fond. “If you don’t know that, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Stiles’ breath catches.

“Jen,” he whispers.

“You called?”

Stiles yelps and turns, almost falling over. Jen catches him by the arm until he regains his balance, her grip unnaturally strong. Stiles stares down at her hand, betrayed. 

“You’re not a vampire!”

She laughs, long pale throat bared, smiling at Stiles gently. 

“No,” she says, evidently amused.

Derek climbs to his feet.

“Stiles,” he grinds out. “Get away from her.”

“No Stiles,” she purrs, sliding her hand up his arm until she’s stroking long fingers up his neck. His breath catches and her eyes light with delight. “Stay.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, almost a growl.

“Why do I…” He trails off, not understanding. She’s lovely and enthralling in a way he never noticed before. Being closer to her feels like stepping into a warm pool, and he wants to soak in her presence forever. He doesn’t understand where any of this is coming from. It’s all so confusing, but it’s all so _right_.

He hears raised voices behind him, what sounds like Scott yelling, and crack and crash of something breaking, but Stiles is floating. He’s caught up in the perfect lilac of her eyes, leaning into the exploratory caress, the fingers brushing over his cheekbone, the guiding hand on his hip, pressing them close together.

“That’s it,” he hears her whisper. 

There are lips on his neck, so gentle, and Stiles can only gasp and tip his head back while they explore the length of his carotid artery, lingering on the thrum of his pulse.

“So beautiful,” she sighs. “Mine at last.”

Something in her voice, a note of discord that makes her sound covetous and hungry, wipes away some of the fog in Stiles’ brain and all of a sudden he becomes aware of the way the pack are fighting desperately against invisible bonds. The sprite is gone, probably bounced back to her home dimension by Kira, but they’re still bound. Which means Jen, whatever she is, is powerful enough to bind the whole pack in place without breaking a sweat. 

“What,” he slurs, voice slow and dreamy. “What did you…”

Jen laughs against his throat, propping him up against the wall, stroking the side of his face. He wants to shrink away from her, but he can’t move. 

“Nothing much,” she says, syrup-warm, “just a little something to keep you agreeable.”

She touches the charm on his wrist. 

“I like this,” she says, warm and intimate. “It’s cute. Do you enjoy being a pagan, Stiles?”

“Druid,” he says, slightly less slurred than before. “Deaton’ll kick your ass if he hears you call it anything else.”

Jen laughs. 

“Oh, of course, the _Druid_. Whatever you want to call the human magic, it’s still only human.” She ghosts her lips over his ear and Stiles shudders. “It can’t touch me.”

“What are you?” Stiles gasps, trying not to tremble when her hand slips under his shirt and starts stroking his belly.

“Your other half,” she whispers. “Fruit of a sister river.” 

Stiles swallows. “Sister…”

Jen smiles, placing a lingering kiss on his cheekbone. 

“Cousin, really.”

Her hand pushes his top higher, stroking over his abdomen, feeling the dips and curves of his ribs.

“My mother,” Stiles says, dread coiling in his stomach.

“Yes,” Jen says, placing kisses up and down his jaw. “Clever boy.”

“She wasn’t human.”

Jen hums, tracing the nobs of his spine with skating nails.

“Not entirely.”

Stiles feels tears spring to his eyes, and turns his head away. Jen catches his jaw, watching as a single tear falls. She presses her lips against it, closing her eyes like she’s savouring the taste. 

“Oh,” she whispers, “such pain. So much heartache. Your tears are wonderful gifts Stiles.”

Stiles shudders. He wants to melt into the walls, want to claw his way out of her smothering embrace, wants to thrash and cry and scream.

“That’s it,” she soothes, lips poised to catch more of his tears, “let it out.”

A sound is wrenched out of him, half-whine, half-scream. Jen shudders.

“ _Yes_ ,” she hisses, pushing her hips against his, making Stiles panic.

“No,” he says. “Please don’t.”

“Oh Stiles,” she says sadly. “You must understand. Your pain is like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Your heartache, your sorrow, is sweeter than any wine they have yet to bring me in my court.” She cups his cheek. “You are a far more precious jewel than I could ever have imagined. How could I ever give that up?”

Stiles sobs, caught between being horrified that he’s even in this situation, and being thankful she’s not hurting him. 

“Please don’t do this,” he says, voice cracking. 

Jen strokes the thin skin under his eye, and her lilac eyes are soft and brimming with tears.

“You are my birthright,” she whispers. “We are meant for one another. Don’t you feel it?”

Stiles swallows, because yes, he feels something for her, a deep, unmistakable pull that he can barely fight, let alone deny. But he doesn’t want this.

“Yes,” he says, gasping when she nuzzles his jaw, sighing in contentment. Stiles closes his eyes. It would be so easy to give in. So easy to fall into her thrall and never look up again. He’d probably even enjoy it.

He meets Derek’s eyes over her shoulder. He’s bound and gagged like the others, yelling without sound, struggling against something Stiles can’t see. They all are. But his eyes, Derek’s eyes. Stiles looks into them and knows. He can’t do this. 

Stiles rolls his head against the wall until he’s meeting her eyes.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

Jen takes his face in both hands, rubbing their noses together.

“Stiles,” she sighs, “haven’t you realised? You don’t really have a choice.”

“Yes,” Stiles says, eyes darting over her shoulder. “I do.”

Jen screams as claws rake down her shoulder. Malia garbs his arm and hauls his out of her reach.

“Come on!” She yells.

Stiles hesitates when Malia starts to pull him past where the pack are still bound in place.

“We don’t have time,” she yells.

Stiles locks eyes with Derek.

Even without words he’s screaming. Go.

Stiles swallows thickly, and lets Malia pull him out the front door.

They sprint across the lawn. Stiles fumbles with his keys getting the car unlocked.

“Is she following us?” 

“I don’t know,” Malia calls out, frowning into the dark behind them. “I can’t see her!”

They hop in the car and tear onto the open road, faster than is advisable. Stiles is still shaking, and the minutes they’re far enough away from the house for him to feel comfortable, Stiles pulls over and puts his head in his hands. 

“What the hell _was_ that?” Malia asks, starting at him incredulously. “Seriously, I disappear for half a day to spend some time with my dad and everyone gets themselves captured. And you get yourself, well, whatever the hell _that_ was. Are you all morons or something?”

Stiles shudders. Mortifyingly, he feels tears well up in his eyes.

“Stiles?” Malia asks, more gently. “What… What was that?”

“That was my neighbour,” Stiles says tiredly.

“Did she…” Malia trails off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles says.

“It does.”

Stiles ignores her. Ignoring everything sounds like a good idea right now.

“We should go to the clinic. Even if Deaton isn’t there he might have some stuff that can help us.”

Malia stares at him for a long moment. Eventually, she nods.

They drive to the clinic in silence. It’s only when Stiles is dismantling the wards enough to sneak through the back, that Malia places a hand on his wrist. Stiles flinches and her mouth thins.

“You should go to the hospital.”

“And say what?”

“That you were assaulted.”

Stiles grits his teeth and tears a hole in the wards big enough to step through. Seriously, fuck Deaton. He can fix them when he gets back from his suspiciously inconvenient research trip. 

“Yeah, and what good will that do?”

“You. It’ll do _you_ some good. Jesus Stiles, if she—”

“Stop!” He yells, too loud. He clears his throat. “Look I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not telling anyone about this, it’s bad enough I had a room of witnesses, I don’t need to rehash it with some stranger. It wasn’t a big deal anyway.”

Malia follows him into the back room, watching silently as he wrenches open draws with too much force and flips through the mustiest of Deaton’s musty old books. 

“She tried to rape you Stiles.”

Stiles fumbles the book. It falls to the floor, landing with a bang.

Stiles laughs, semi-hysterical and a little cruel.

“Girls don’t rape boys.”

Malia stands beside him.

“Even if that was true, which it isn’t. That thing wasn’t a girl.”

“Sure looked like one,” he mutters. “Felt like one too.”

Malia looks at him steadily. 

“It was stronger than you, faster than you, more powerful than you. It doesn’t matter that it looked like a girl. It overpowered you, put you in a position you didn’t consent to. _That_ is assault.”

Stiles closes his eyes, and Malia places a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Just promise me you’ll think about talking to someone?”

After a long, tense moment, Stiles nods.

“Yeah, okay. Just… let’s focus on finding a way to help the pack first.”

Malia nods solemnly.

They spend the rest of the afternoon looking through Deaton’s materials, trying to find anything to use against the Fae.

“Uh, Stiles?” Malia says a couple of hours in. “What kind of Fae are we fighting?”

Stiles blinks. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well this book says there are two types: Seelie and Unseelie.” 

Stiles scrambles for the book.

“Let me see that.”

According to the book, the Unseelie are Dark Fae from the Nethersphere. Also according to the book, there are another class of Fae from the Innersphere, Light Fae, Seelie Fae. The legend detailed in the book says Light Fae were once rulers of the Nethersphere and the Dark Fae were the working class: support staff, cup bearers, blacksmiths, etcetera. Then the Dark Fae struck a bargain with the supernatural beasts that roamed the outer lands beyond the court, promising them a place in the court, if only they would help the Dark Fae overthrow the Light Fae. They agreed. The Light were banished to the Innersphere, where they started their own court, the Seelie court, that ruled over all things light in the world, that took all the creatures and the land the sun touched under their dominion and their protection.

After Stiles relays the story to Malia, she frowns at him. 

“You don’t think…”

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly, “I do.”

“This can’t be it,” Malia says doubtfully. “We would have come across some before don’t you think?”

Stiles shrugs.

“The book says they’re rulers of the Innersphere. How would we even know unless they wanted us to?”

“I guess,” Malia concedes, frowning just a little. “So how do we find them? If they protect everything the light touches, shouldn’t they have, uh, stepped in before now?”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. 

“No idea,” he sighs.

Something clicks inside his head then, a puzzle piece falling into place. He feels his eye twitch.

“But I have a feeling Deaton might know,” he says darkly.

**

Malia places her hand on his shoulder.

“This is the best way to help them,” she says, pulling the cap further over his eyes and adjusting his glasses.

“I know. I just…” 

“Yeah,” she breathes.

They hand their tickets to the bus driver, and pick the two seats closest to the back without being right next to the toilet.

Malia falls asleep on his shoulder two hours into their journey. After they’ve exhausted twenty questions, I spy, and never have I ever. The lights in the bus dim as the sun sets, and the warm glow makes his eyes droop. As he’s drifting off he thinks of a plush orange couch swaddled with blankets, and how nice it would feel to curl up there, a soft voice reading aloud, whispering in his ear.

**


	2. Strung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam isn't scared. He's faced worse than this.

_Interlude_

Liam groans.

“Ow…”

“Apologies,” says a pleasant voice. Liam would have leapt a foot in the air if not for the chains around his arms and legs. “The chains were _not_ my idea,” the voice continues, dripping with disdain. 

Liam opens his eyes and immediately wishes he hadn’t. His vision swims and his head throbs like someone hit him over the head with a lacrosse stick. _Did we have a game?_

“Ah, afraid not,” the voice says, a little closer than before, but still out of sight. Liam looks around anyway, cranes his neck to get a glimpse. A hand on the back on his head stops him, a body pressing up close behind. Liam shivers at the sudden cold. “One of my associates acquired you after a nasty run in you had with one of my less polite cousins. I apologise. There is a reason I distance myself from those mongrels.”

There’s a sound close by, voices, children laughing. Wherever he is, it’s close to civilisation. If he could find a way to escape…

“No finesse,” the voice continues, conspiratorial. Like they’re friends.

The hand on the back of his head tightens, only slightly, but enough for Liam to tell the guy has claws. Sharp ones. _Is he a werewolf?_

His captor laughs. Liam kind of feels like there’s a joke he’s not in on. Maybe _he’s_ the joke.

“Oh darling, you are precious…”

Liam blinks, horribly confused, and angry because he’s confused. Can this guy read his mind or something? Are there _mind-readers_ now?

The man hums, like Liam’s amused him.

“Yes I’m afraid. On both counts, but that’s the least of your problems I’m sorry to say.”

Liam’s heart beats a little quicker.

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself into quite a pickle darling.”

“What are you _talking_ about,” Liam groans, because he knows he should be scared, and he should definitely be watching his mouth, but his head still really hurts and if anything his vision’s getting blurrier the longer this conversation goes on. “I haven’t done anything.”

A blur of yellow moves into his eye-line, and Liam blinks at it woozily.

“Such lovely vowels,” the voice croons, “was your mother Germanic? Or perhaps your father? Though I must confess, I find the mother tongue to be a far more romantic notion.”

Liam’s heart quickens, and he makes out two pinpricks of green light in the dark, coming closer. _Eyes_ , he thinks, _those are eyes_. Fingers brush across his cheek, abnormally cold. Nails scrape at his skin, hungry. Liam shivers.

“What do you want?” Liam whispers.

“Oh darling, I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

The fingers trail over his jaw, finding his pulse, counting the beats.

“Are you frightened child?”

Liam swallows. A thumb brushes across his adams apple, following the motion.

“You are,” the voice says, like it’s a secret, “your heart betrays you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Liam spits. He won’t be intimidated. He’s faced worse than some supernatural pervert with a language fetish. Even a super creepy one. 

His captor tuts, like Liam’s failed some important test.

“I’m afraid it’s the concussion that’s preventing you from absorbing the gravity of your situation.” 

A hand strokes through his hair. Whether it’s meant to be intimidating or soothing, he’s not sure, but he thinks it might be a little bit of both. The grips tightens, nails digging in until Liam’s whimpering, until he feels streams of warm liquid- _oh god, that’s blood_ \- run down his face and neck. 

“It’s okay, young wolf. It will all be over soon,” the voice croons. 

Liam’s vision dims. He’s floating away from his body, adrift in a calm sea somewhere far away. The pain fades until there is only a void, a numbness where the pain used to be.

“Sleep,” the voice whispers.

Just before he passes out Liam catches sight of a familiar red ruby pendant, nestled in between the yellow and gold folds of a ceremonial robe. 

“Dass Kira’s,” he slurs, just before he drops away into darkness.


End file.
